Category Archives: Birth Trauma

It seems like the media is talking about the ridiculously high csection rates again and the questions get asked. Why are the rates so high?What is it about mothers today that’s causing 1 in 3 births to end in major surgery?

You wanna know WHY we’re in this mess? I’ve been asking that question for 5 years now, ever since I was aware of the issue. And many birth advocates have been doing it a lot longer than I have.

Here’s how you get a recipe for an unnecessary cesarean. Please keep in mind that this isn’t referring to the 15% of cases when a csection is actually necessary, nor is it referring to the breech and twin births where a csection may or may not be needed. This is in reference to the countless cases of mothers who could have had a vaginal birth but were robbed of that because of factors they were not aware of that were deliberately undermining their confidence in their bodies and that contributed to their “needing” that cesarean.

Mother spends last week of pregnancy wondering if she’ll ever go into labor on her own.

OB convinces the “patient” that the due date is an expiration date for the pregnancy. Makes no mention of the fact that very few women actually go into labor on their due date OR that full term is anywhere from 37-42 weeks.

Mother exhausts herself trying to go into labor by her due date. Gets discouraged when all her efforts “fail”. OB does not ever explain that THE BABY is the one that triggers labor and that she could still have a few more weeks to go.

OB does cervical checks in the final month. Tells mother she’s either making progress or not. Discourages mother further that her body isn’t working the way it “should”.

Due date approaches. OB has already scheduled a csection in advance. Mother tires herself out trying to go into labor on her own. Gets more comments about healthy babies, csections being “safer” and very few or no mentions of her right to informed consent and refusal, current VBAC guidelines, or current evidence that is contradictory to what her OB is saying. Months of disempowering language and power imbalances has made her less likely to question her OB or say NO.

Mother does not go into labor by her due date (because BABY ISN’T READY) and has the repeat csection.

This can go one of two ways: Mother hires a different care provider, possibly even a midwife. She might do a homebirth or choose to labor at home as long as possible before going to the hospital. If there’s a VBAC ban in that hospital then she would also need to arm herself with the laws of informed consent and refusal because coercive tactics may be employed to obtain her “consent” for a repeat csection. If she stays home, she likely has an empowering VBA2C unless there is a true complication that arises and the midwife advises that she transfer to the hospital (very unlikely).

If she has NO supportive voices of friends or even strangers on the internet telling her that what she wants is even possible or how to achieve that goal, then she might feel like she can’t do it and agree to a repeat csection.

The more csections she has, the more likely these scenarios will repeat themselves. I personally have a friend who had a VBA3C and she indeed had to fight for it. When she achieved that VBAC it changed her. It made her into that strong advocate that would be a voice to encourage other mothers seeking VBAC. She learned the hard way, as so many women do, that the system is not designed to support vaginal births.

We have too many csections because we have too many inductions scheduled before 42 weeks without medical cause.

We have too many csections because we have too many repeat csections scheduled on the due dates or just before, without medical reason for it.

We have too many csections because too many women are being led to believe their bodies don’t work and that they “need” interventions that they actually don’t. We have too many csections because not enough people are out there informing mothers of their rights to informed consent and refusal, evidence based practices and guidelines, and the difference between a care provider who is truly supportive and one that is placating their patients but fully intends to call ALL the shots later when it’s much harder for them to refuse without real or imagined consequences.

We have too many csections because there are too many OBs out there who operate under a patriarchal viewpoint of knowing what’s “best” and who would rather do what’s easiest for them in terms of convenience, profit, and liability. And sadly, they overshadow the GOOD doctors and the midwives out there who ARE serving mothers and giving them the empowering births they deserve, EVEN when those births have unexpected outcomes.

We DON’T have too many csections because mothers are older, heavier, or less healthy than in the past. That’s just a scapegoat that the OBs doing all the unnecessary csections like to point to in order to take the spotlight off their own practices. But for over 20 years they’ve known the truth. They’ve ALWAYS known what they were doing was causing more csections and they still take the credit of “saving lives” because that’s easier too and the mothers generally don’t know any better. And the ones who DO know better? Well they’re condescended to and called “difficult” and they’re treated like a problem client who is more concerned with her birth vision than her baby. And I’m sick of their bullshit games, so I call it out when I see it.

Mainstream parenting forums are made up of all kinds of mothers. Many of them disempowered and scared to go against “doctor’s orders” even when it’s clear that the doctor is lying to them. And others will get pissed at me for telling those mothers that they can say NO. And still others will say the same thing I am and share their own heartbreaking stories; their warnings to not fall for the same tricks they had. Their pleas for another mother to avoid the treacherous path that those of us who do this work can all see coming from miles away. Doulas know. Maternity care nurses know. Midwives know. Birth advocates know. We ALL know. We hear the stories, we help the women who were burned in the past and are now struggling against the obstacles of their first birth as they seek a more positive experience. And we are often punished and scorned for it.

But we persevere. Why? Because we know that many won’t listen the first time or even the second, but eventually they will. And when they do, we will be there for them. We always knew their bodies weren’t broken.

It’s been a long time coming. I have had this sitting in my Evernote inbox for over four years now. My son turns 5 years old this year in May. He will be starting kindergarten this fall. I have gone through birth trauma counselling, worked as a birth advocate since my son was about 16 months old, taken my power back and had an empowering homebirth. That homebirth baby turns 2 at the end of March.

I have written extensivelyaboutthetraumaof myson’s birth and how many regrets I have over it. But right after I had him, before I had fully processed the full experience and extent of the buried feelings I had over all that happened, I wrote out his story. At the time I didn’t understand why it took me 3 days. At the time I saw the traumatic parts as “normal”. I thought I was “lucky” that I had “made it through, uncut and unscathed”. I felt it could have been so much “worse”. I hadn’t yet learned the extent to which I had been lied to, manipulated and coerced by the system. I hadn’t yet learned that I had the right of informed consent and refusal and I hadn’t yet learned that much of what was in my records was bullshit. I hadn’t yet sent a letter to the College of Midwives to register a complaint and had a response that basically boiled down to “sorry you feel so traumatized, but because your records say you were okay with a hospital birth there’s nothing we can really do. You know, because someone who wasn’t YOU wrote down how they thought YOU felt and it’s documented to cover their ass”. So yeah, nothing came of it. But I really didn’t expect anything to come of it; you don’t spend 4 years as a birth advocate, digging through the statistics and hearing the stories all too common and heartbreaking, to know that the system is rigged. The important thing is that now I have MY proof that the odds are not in my favor and that in order to change things I have to go directly to the mothers who get screwed over and I’m okay with that. I firmly believe that if I tell enough women to be on their guard, a lot of them will listen and say “this is bullshit! I’M in charge here, NOT the system! How DARE they tell me what I can or can’t do to birth MY child!”

But this isn’t about what I know now. I’ve gone over that topic so often that it’s ingrained in my poor husband’s brain and the first thing that pops into his head when he’s talking with other parents about anything baby related. No, this post is about the mom I was in the first few weeks after the birth, when I was still trying to figure out motherhood and was still high on the new mother hormones and hadn’t really examined all too closely what my real feelings were. It’s the mom that still felt that making a fuss over a vaginal delivery when other moms had to have csections would make me seem like I was ungrateful or selfish. It was the mom that still was “playing nice” and thinking her trauma wasn’t really “that bad”. I didn’t have the framework yet to really understand that “good enough” wasn’t actually good enough for me. I didn’t yet understand that I gave in when I didn’t have to, that I let someone else tell me what to do and that I hadn’t had to do THAT either. I didn’t know what I didn’t know; which is much like a lot of mothers and indeed it’s WHY so often birth advocates can hit a wall when talking to women who don’t KNOW that birth can be awesome. It’s NOT something to “just get through”. Thankfully (and I cannot express enough how grateful I am to her), my midwife gave me the words of wisdom I needed to help me unlock those feelings so that I didn’t go and “birth trauma” all over any other mother who might have told me that I deserved better. She said “it doesn’t matter WHAT happened; if YOU feel it was traumatic then it WAS.” So when I was thinking that maybe I didn’t belong at the birth trauma group session after the post-partum drop in, she helped me see that I DID belong there. I hadn’t realized until then just how much the birth had affected me. I hadn’t been able to process it fully when she had asked me 3 days post-partum how I felt. I had been too tired and too happy at NOT being cut to really put too much thought of introspection into why it was so hard for me to get certain images out of my head or why I kept saying “but next time I can have a homebirth so it’s fine. Really.”

And this was the outcome of all those unprocessed feelings. THIS was the birth story I wrote. And after I wrote it, I never looked at it again. I never shared it. In fact, even typing this now, I haven’t read it. I won’t be reading it until I copy and paste the whole thing in here and start adding pictures.

I have lost count how many times I’ve read and shared my daughter’s story, but I am so very aware that my son’s gets no attention other than to point out everything that was wrong about it. I just couldn’t bring myself to share it. I didn’t want to remember.

But he’s turning 5 years old. My daughter is turning 2 in March. I’ve done so much work for other women. I’ve probably healed about as much as I ever will. It’s time I read it, insert the commentary where it needs to go, and move on. Anything in bold type is my current thoughts as I re-read through this, knowing what I know now.

Hunter’s Birth Story

Thursday morning I woke with cramping that was dull and menstrual-like. I ignored them for as long as I could, but by 3:30 pm they were becoming very sharp and were about 9 minutes apart. I called my doula and she was on the phone with me from 4pm to 5:30 and by then my contractions were coming 6 minutes apart. She came to the house around 6pm to help me through a few hours and when they hit the 4-5 minute mark we went to the hospital to be assessed. I wanted to be assessed at home, but Jules was on call the next day and therefore needed her rest and I didn’t know at the time that cervical dilation means nothing so I thought I “had to” be checked. She advised us to just go to the hospital, and I was having such sharp pains that I had to lean over the back of the seat on my knees because sitting was just too uncomfortable. The 5 minute drive to the hospital was brutal. I thought for sure that this was it and he was coming that night.

We get to the hospital and I’m in horrible pain with the contractions still 4 minutes apart. But then things started to slow down to 6 minutes again because I didn’t want to be there and progress slows when I’m stressed or scared, and because I had a record of NSTs I had to have another one in the triage while waiting for the midwife. Eventually she arrived. I was checked by a midwife with her own practice who was filling in for one of the midwives I was seeing who had been on sick leave. She said I was at 2 cm, and I was like “WHAT?” Because I was at 2 cm Tuesday when I’d had my membranes swept. I could NOT believe it; I had been contracting all day long and had all that prelabor for almost a week, and NOTHING had changed at all! Or maybe I had been at 6cm and then closed back up because I was in pain and didn’t want to be there. I tried not to let that discourage me, and at her suggestion we picked up some Gravol, Tylenol, and ice cream for me to have later. Thankfully my fear of being in the hospital overruled any notions of being admitted in early labor. I took my Gravol and Tylenol when we got home, had a bit more pizza to eat, and then went to sleep. I would wake up every 2-5 minutes with a hard contraction that I would have to shake my legs and hips to get through. By about 5:30 I could no longer stand it; I couldn’t sleep anymore, they were back to about 4 minutes apart and I was feeling so much pressure and pinching on my cervix. So probably back to 6cm and had I stayed in the pool at home he would probably have been out by lunchtime. My doula stayed with us for a few hours but had to leave around 8am for her family’s fishing trip, and I was resting on the bed for a while, out of my mind with exhaustion. We got a few very nice pictures from my labor though.

Around 10:30 that morning we went to the hospital and Tyler had to get me the wheelchair and help me into it. While I was waiting I had to lean against one of the pillars between contractions just outside of the hospital. An older lady stopped and asked if I was okay, and I said “I’m just in labor”. She was very nice and rubbed my back, talking to me and asking me if I knew what we were having and if this was my first baby. She stayed with me until Tyler came back, and wished us luck as I was helped into the wheelchair.

We got up to triage and I was admitted immediately, getting a “room” with a window. I stared at the trees swaying and alternated between sitting on the birth ball provided and rocking on the bed. I was checked again, this time by Jules, and she told me I was 4 cm. All that hard early labor and I was only at 4cm! Well, I probably closed up again by going to the hospital and putting up with more cervical checks. I was seriously starting to wonder if things would ever progress, but she said that I was going to be getting a room soon and that things would progress. I begged for a room with a tub, because I wanted to labor in water. I honestly thought that would be enough, and that things would get better.

While we were waiting, Tyler had to go get our stuff from the car, put money in the meter for parking, and get the cooler with our food. I told him “RUN” because with our doula no longer helping me and everyone in the maternity ward being super busy, I was laboring on my own (Good! I need to be alone). I needed my husband (No, I just needed his protection). He was the only one helping me get through these contractions, and they were getting so hard to handle. I was in so much pain, and my back was starting to hurt on one side, which I thought was due to being hunched over (Nope. Back labor). I also had to squat down really low because there was so much pressure and with the contractions coming so hard and fast it was excruciating. I had NO idea that this was NOT normal. I thought I was just progressing really fast and that he would be out in a few hours (he probably would have been if I hadn’t also been fighting against labor-stalling adrenaline).

Anyway, Tyler gets back and we overhear the nurses saying that if I delivered “soon” it would have to be in triage because there were NO rooms available. Well that probably halted any progress I had been making and closed me right back up again! Apparently this was a very busy week for babies and there was another woman laboring hard next curtain away from us. And interrupting my rhythm/concentration. I prayed that I would get a room and that it would be with a tub. Thankfully my wish was granted. Jules came in around 11:30 or so and told me that they were moving people around, discharging some of the moms that had their babies the day before, and that I would have the room with the tub in about an hour because they just had to clean up. It was music to my ears. In the meantime, she also tried to get me to take a blood test. Correction: she intercepted the nurse on her way to do the initial routine bloodwork and had to get me to refuse it myself in order to get them to go away…but way for the hospital to add more adrenaline/fear to my labor. I said “I don’t need one. I’m O positive.” She explained it was to check my hemoglobin count, and again I said “I had one at the beginning of my pregnancy and the test for anemia at 8 months. I’m fine, they said it was high. I can’t take a needle right now; not with these contractions. I can’t relax enough.” Pretty sure I was bitchier than I sound here, and also very frantic/desperate to get them to go away. She let it go, and that was it. No needles. I was so grateful for that, because knowing NOW that my contractions really were that hard, there was NO way I would have been able to relax no matter how much I tried. I really could not handle anymore stress in that moment. I’m glad they didn’t force the issue on me. I’m glad they respected my informed consent and refusal after badgering me three times but really, once should have been enough.

So about an hour later, the tub room was available. Tyler moved our stuff over and Jules helped me walk down the hall. It was a LONG walk and I was in so much pain, but I managed to do it without stopping. I am amazed by this now because of how hard those contractions actually were. They weren’t, actually. The perception of being in the hospital made the pain far worse than it needed to be. Most women probably would have doubled over or fainted or something, but I got to the room and Jules and a nurse helped me into the tub. I stayed in that tub even though the water was not helping. The bathtub was too small and the water didn’t even reach my chest unlike the birth pool which was glorious. I was in so much pain and as the contractions got harder and my back was spasming I had to get up and move to my hands and knees. I still wasn’t handling things well; they were just so sharp and the pain in my back made it so much worse. I said “I want the gas. I need the gas.” Tyler asked me what the password was, because we had agreed that I would use a code word if I truly needed anything to help me through the pain. “Tuxedo,” I said without hesitation. “Give me the gas.”

They got me a huge tank of it. I thankfully knew just how to breathe it in. So the gas worked REALLY well, after only a few deep breaths I was feeling better. I could feel the contraction but the edge was gone. I could handle it. The gas IS awesome.

I don’t know how long I was in there for. Time had ceased to exist and all that was there was the hollow echo of my nature/instrumental CD, with the soft music and crashing of the waves. The gas was my ritual. I would breathe it in the second the contraction started, hold it for a few seconds, and then breathe it out slowly in a sigh of relief. “Remember to only breathe in the gas during a contraction, Honey” Tyler’s voice echoed from seemingly far away. I nodded my head to show I understood. But there were no breaks. I only would stop to take a few sips of gatorade from Tyler’s water bottle, which he offered me every ten minutes or so. As soon as I took in the oxygen, the gas would start to wear off, and the contractions were strong again. And I would remember where I was. I would quickly inhale three times to take it away, and then I was good. By 4pm (which I only know it was because there is a text on my phone from Tyler to my doula) I was asked to lie on my back in the water for another check. I sleepily maneuvered myself and nodded my head, gas tube still pressed between my teeth, and let my midwife check me. I felt hardly anything at all and only heard her say “she’s at 7 cm”. I sighed in relief. I was in transition. Nope. Things would go fast now, I thought to myself. I knew transition rarely lasted more than two hours…

…except in my case where it lasted four. Somewhere in the haze of timeless oblivion that were those four hours, Tyler told me he was going down the hall to use the bathroom (he didn’t want to disturb me by going in MY bathroom). I nodded my head sleepily, not really caring at that point. I was in my own little world where nothing could hurt, frighten, or upset me.

I started to feel pressure building up and checked myself (because I was curious to feel where I was at, and because I have no shame when it comes to my own body). I could feel his head, or possibly just the bag of waters, (bulging waters) and I knew I was close. I also remember that at that time the contractions were even harder and I would suck in the gas much faster, then let out a scream like “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” over and over again at each exhale into the tube/bottle. I was also bearing down, trying to get my son low enough that I might be able to “trick” the nurse into having me deliver in the tub. Pushing waaaay too early because I didn’t know any better and thought the bulging waters was the head. Unfortunately they figured it out and I had to be moved (I wasn’t making as much progress as I thought I was, either). Jules and the nurse tried to help me from the tub, but I couldn’t stand up on my own. The pressure was so far down and my legs were shaking so bad. They had to take away the gas (ripped it away, more like) to bring me back to myself, and the second they did the pain hit. And reality set in again that I wasn’t at home where it was safe. It was SO hard to get out of the tub and they wanted me to walk to the bed, which wasn’t really that far, but with the amount of pain I was in it felt like forever just to get out of the bathroom.

“I need the gas,” I sobbed. “Please give me the gas.”

“You can’t have it yet,” was Jules’ constant reply. “We have to get you in bed first.”

Hello trauma! HUGE trigger warning coming up here!

Oh god, it was so hard. And Tyler wasn’t back yet (I couldn’t fight them off on my own) and the midwife and the nurse couldn’t lift me up on their own and I wasn’t able to lift myself. My legs did not want to go up that high because my son was pressing against my hips and I’m tearfully screaming “please just give me the fucking gas!” because at this point I’m hysterical. I’m leaning over the bed, and they keep telling me to get up onto it, and I physically can’t do it. Then, even though my eyes are shut tight and I’m in so much pain, I sense Tyler’s presence. I feel his hands under my arms. I feel him lift me up onto the bed. I hear his voice telling me softly that everything is going to be okay. It still hurts and I’m still having trouble moving into a comfortable position on the bed (that fucking bed!!!!), but now I have him. He’s holding my hand and he’s telling me it’s time for us to meet our son. No it’s not; that trauma just set back any chance that the fetal ejection reflex was going to happen any time soon. I open my eyes and look at the clock across from my bed; the time is 8pm.

I’m on my side, I’m trying to push with everything I have, and nothing seems to be happening. Because it’s not actually time yet and all that stress isn’t helping things! It’s suggested that I move to a semi sitting position and though it’s hard to get up on my own, Tyler helps me and the head of the bed is moved up so that I’m basically on a large recliner. I’m able to make more progress this way, but it’s still taking a lot longer than I thought it should have (Because it’s NOT time yet). It’s been at least an hour and the fetal monitor is back on me (therefore I can no longer MOVE), along with my blue and pink colored bands from all the NSTs that I’d had in the last few weeks. I can feel my son’s head but it’s not enough to get him to crown. The nurse mentions that in my birth plan I wanted to touch my baby’s head as he crowns, and asks if I’d also like a mirror to see what’s going on. I hadn’t thought about this when I was writing out my plan. The idea hadn’t been too appealing then, either, but I nod my head because yes, I do want to see. Turns out that at that point I couldn’t see anything at all. I saw some bulging of my outer labia, but other than that, nothing. I felt defeated.

“Why isn’t he OUT yet?” I cry in frustration, slamming my head back against the bed. “I just want him OUT! Come out, Baby Hunter, everyone’s waiting to meet you!” I’m sobbing now. This is so hard, and a part of me just wishes that they give up and wheel me in for a C-section. Obviously this kid isn’t going to come out on his own, and I must be too small and weak to get him out. Well there’s some of that birth trauma coming out in my words and thoughts. I’m told to push HARD and I look up at Tyler because I really need to borrow strength from him. I don’t have the gas. I don’t have anything at all to block the pain, but I have him. And somehow, he is all I need. I look into his eyes, and they are glistening with tears. A few stray ones fall from his beautiful hazel eyes and trickle down his cheeks. He is holding my hand, letting me grip him as tight as I can, and I am pulling on his arm to anchor myself. He tells me softly “push, honey, you can do it,” and instead of screaming and cursing at him the way the women in the movies all seem to do, I am tearfully telling him how much I love him.

I push hard with each contraction, sometimes screaming “aaaaaahhhh” or “oooooohhhhhh” and keeping my mouth as wide as I can. Other times I’m taking a deep breath and making strangled sounds as I try to hold it and push harder. I don’t even notice the pain anymore. It feels so much better to push during the contraction than to not do anything at all, and I’m trying SO hard to get my son to crown (and working against gravity and fighting my adrenaline). Finally I hear Jules saying “yes, yes, just like that. Keep doing that. You’ve got it!” and I feel like I’m making progress again. The heat of the hot compresses on my perineum also help a lot with numbing the pain and I can feel myself stretching. Interesting how I don’t note that my water broke around this time. Jules asks Tyler if he wants to see the head. I’m a little freaked because OH MY GOD, my husband is going to see his “pleasure hole” being used for a completely functional purpose and he’ll never be able to UN-SEE that. But he looks anyway, and he’s amazed by it, not freaking out. He comments that our son has a lot of hair, and I’m told I can place him hand down to feel it for myself. There is a lot of hair, and I picture in my head a little baby boy that looks just like Tyler, and I’m able to focus on that instead of the pain. It really is comforting feeling their little heads.

When the contractions stop I’m told not to push, because I also specified in my plan that I wanted to avoid tearing as much as possible, as well as avoid an episiotomy. So I’m blowing and panting until the burn subsides, and then I push again. He is still not out.

“Get him out!” I’m crying. “Please, Baby Hunter, just come OUT!”

“YOU have to get him out,” Jules is reminding me. “You have to push hard and he will come out.”

“I AM pushing,” I scream at her in frustration. “I’m doing everything I can, but there’s no damn contraction to help me right now and I NEED the fucking contraction!”

It’s been over a minute and the contractions have slowed down. I’m stressed out again and the fetal ejection reflex isn’t going to help me because my body senses this isn’t a safe place to birth. I’m told I have to give small little pushes without the contractions, because otherwise I’ll deliver the head too fast and will surely tear badly. So I try, and things are happening so fast now that I can’t handle it anymore. I need to stop for a few seconds, because I can feel the stretch and I KNOW I am going to tear. I can feel it up high and I’m panting again. I don’t want to push until this burn goes away, but now it’s been three hours. And there are 3 fucking OBs outside my room wondering why I haven’t been taken to the OR yet and one OB is tapping her foot inside the doorway. It is 10:30 at night and Jules is telling me that I HAVE to push past the pain. I have to risk this tear. There’s only so much she can do to keep the wolves away and her time is almost up. The baby has crowned and my bag of waters has burst like a water balloon right as he’s coming out, and it has meconium in it. Which isn’t a big deal because he’s not in my uterus anymore, he’s on his way OUT; but again I didn’t know that it wasn’t a big deal at the time and the hospital protocols are STUPID here. The baby is stressed. Nope. He has to be born NOW. Only because the OBs are about to “pull rank” on my midwife and she’s already pushing her luck farther than most would dare.“This is the obstetrician,” she tells me, directing my attention to a woman standing beside her. “If you don’t get this baby out in the next ten minutes, she is going to give you an episiotomy because he can’t stay on your perineum any longer.”

“I can’t” I cry. “It buuuurns. I need the gas, please. I promise I’ll be able to get him out if I can just have the gas first!”

“Honey, you can’t have it anymore,” Tyler tells me through a thick voice choked with pain and guilt that I have to go through this. “It’ll hurt him; he’s in distress. You wanted to do this naturally, remember?”

I MEANT NO DRUGS OR INTERVENTIONS! I wanted to scream at him. I NEVER SAID ANYTHING ABOUT NOT USING THE GAS! But somehow I know he’s right; I can’t cut off my baby’s oxygen supply (Um, no, he would have been fine at this point) and I might end up doing that if I gassed myself right now. So I nod weakly, tell him I love him, and I push with everything I have left. I feel the pressure of my son’s head as it moves forward. I grip onto Tyler with both hands and I try to block the pain as I feel the top of my vagina tear just a little, with tiny “pops” on either side. After that, things go fast. His head is out and Jules is turning his shoulders, (probably the most traumatizing part after getting the head out) and I give one more long, hard push. I feel such relief, the pressure is gone and there’s a huge gush of fluid and they’re telling me I’ve done it. My son his immediately brought to my chest and he’s crying but he’s here, and I’m crying because I’ve done it. I got my baby out. Yeah, but not without trauma. He’s perfect and so beautiful and I have him squirming in my arms. The nurses wrap warm, heated blankets around us and I’m stroking his hair and telling him how happy I am and how much I love him. Then I look up at Tyler and I tell him that we did it; we have our baby boy, finally. “I love you so much,” I tell him. Tyler has tears in his eyes again. I will never forget the smile or the glistening of his eyes or how I felt in that moment. I loved him before, but now it is twenty times that or more, and all doubts that we can survive anything are gone. He is mine forever, and I am his, and the birth of our son will forever be etched in our memories. And guide us to do so much better next time.

When it’s all over and the cord has stopped pulsing (I wanted to delay cord clamping so that my baby could get all his blood from the placenta) Jules asks Tyler if he wants to cut it. He decides he doesn’t want to do it, but that I should have that honor. So I freed my own son and then I hold him for a few more minutes before the pediatrician takes him to assess whether the stress of being born has affected him. He has an apgar score of 9, he’s perfectly healthy and most definitely NOT an IUGR baby. No shit! All those tests and ultrasounds we had to have had been completely unnecessary; the only good thing about them being that we now have a ton of late ultrasound pictures and got to hear his heartbeat a lot. Way to find a silver lining though. The bands I wanted to keep from the NSTs were sadly soiled during the birth, so they had to be thrown out. I think my doula snapped some pictures of me with them on the night before though, so at least I’ll have the picture of them to show my son someday. I hate that picture because it symbolizes my confinement within their institution.

Anyway, after he was checked out and determined to be fine, I got to hold him again and attempt a self-latch. He took to my breast immediately and I was surprised that it didn’t hurt at all. It was just a gentle little tugging sensation and I could have happily fed my child all night. But I had to be checked now, and that meant that the baby had to go to his daddy. Tyler took off his shirt and took our son in his arms, placing him against his skin and covering him with a blanket. I watched the two of them bonding together on the glider across from my bed, and breathed through the pain of the exam. Jules informed me of what I already knew; I had some tears by my urethra and clitoris and while they were mild, she wanted the OB to check me out just to see if I needed stitches. She froze me first, just by squirting the medication over the tears so I didn’t have to have a needle. I told her that IF I needed stitches that I would like to use the gas again, and she agreed.

I did NOT need stitches. Though in my records the OB notes her disagreement with my refusal on that. It was up to me whether or not I wanted to heal on my own. Note how I think this was a lucky break instead of my right to informed consent. I was told it would sting when I went to the bathroom, but I said I’d deal with it. Anything was better than subjecting myself to more trauma. So they left me alone with my little boy and my husband, and I was told I could go home as early as 9:30 the next morning just because my son’s vitals would need to be monitored due to the stress of his birth. LIES!!!! I was given two Advil and two Tylenol for my afterpains. I was still weak and shaky but otherwise fine. I did have some fluid in my right ear, which was annoying since I could barely hear anything from that side. But I was happy, I felt very little pain, and I could sit up and stand with help. I was also able to eat two pieces of leftover cheese pizza and down two cups of milk.

Tyler’s sister, mother and father came in shortly after to visit, and I kept my blankets around me. I was only wearing the mesh panties and a huge pad as I fed my son and the nurses cleaned up the bed and changed the sheets. By 12am I was eating another slice of pizza and talking on the phone to my dad, nana, and finally my mother. Tyler continued to text everyone else on our call list, and at 1pm I decided to get ready for bed. Tyler and I swaddled our baby boy in blankets and put him in his bassinet for the night, then went to our respective beds. I would have liked to sleep on the pullout couch with him, but sadly there wasn’t a lot of room. I was told by the nurse to get up to pee, but I didn’t feel the urge at all. I humored her, trying to go right into my pad, but I shook my head and said “my bladder’s not full yet. I must have emptied it in the bath.” She said that was fine, but that I would have to try in a few hours.

Sure enough, at 5am another nurse insisted I wake up and go to the bathroom. I still didn’t feel the urge, but she told me she would do an ultrasound to see if I had a full bladder. Left out the threat of the catheter for “noncompliance”. I rolled my eyes, told her it wasn’t necessary because I could feel it now that she was pressing on my belly. I told her I needed to be in the bathtub to relax and she left me in there. I tried for what felt like forever. I massaged my belly, because sometimes that helps when I feel like I’m under pressure. I knew that if I didn’t go in the tub, she was going to catheterize me and there was NO WAY I was going to let her do that. Oh, wait, there it is. Gotta love the way they made it seem like I had no choice. My poor lady bits had been through enough as it was and I knew that it would be far worse with all the small tears. Of course in hindsight, I should have asked for a cloth to cover those tears up, because holy shit that stung like a bitch! I forced my way through it, breathing much like I had in labor to get through the pain. At last I was finished. I floated in the tub for a few minutes longer, looking down at my slightly protruding belly. It was so soft and only a small bump remained where my uterus was shrinking back down to its proper size. After I felt clean again, I pulled the cord for the call button and had the nurse help me out and get me into clean underwear, a pad, and another pad full of cool black teabags. I would later learn from my midwife that the teabags promoted healing and took away the sting of the tears, and that this was something unique to the hospital. Apparently a nurse had come up with the idea a few months before and the trial runs had been a success. I certainly felt instant relief so they MUST work pretty damn good.

I was wide awake even as she helped me into bed. I had chosen the night before to leave the gown off, because I have always preferred sleeping naked, or at the very least topless with just my panties. It was also far easier to feed my son, but my arms were so weak that I needed the nurse to bring him to me and prop him up on my nursing pillow. The fluid in my ear was finally gone and I could hear again. Tyler was still sleeping, but I grabbed my phone after the nurse put Hunter back in the bassinet, and I snapped a picture with it. I tweeted it to my best friend, and while it wasn’t the best picture (it was still semi-dark outside and I couldn’t turn on the lights and wake Ty) it was the best I could do at the time.

At 9:30 I was ready to go home. The pediatrician on staff came to check Hunter’s vitals again. He was a little cold (because he was sleeping in a plastic box all night instead of in my arms where he belonged) because Tyler and I had just finished changing his diaper and dressing him in the only onsie that was small enough for him. Apparently everything else I’d packed was too big on our son, but we had lots of blankets to keep him warm. The doctor suggested we have some more skin-to-skin time, and Tyler and I sort of had to figure out which one of us would have that privilege because we BOTH love holding our baby boy. Tyler pointed out I needed to eat breakfast, and I conceded defeat because he was right. I watched Tyler in the glider, snuggling our baby against his chest, and again I couldn’t believe how much love I felt for them both. I ate slowly and watched them rocking together. I ate as much of the scrambled eggs as I could and drank a cup of milk and a cup of orange juice, but my stomach was queasy from settling back down and I couldn’t eat anymore. The doctor came back in to check on Hunter and he was fine. Not long after another doctor came in. She greeted us both and explained she was here to test Hunter’s hearing, but that she couldn’t do so until he was thirteen hours old.

“I understand you’re in a rush to get out of here, and I wanted to catch you before you left,” she said. She asked if we wouldn’t mind staying another night, because she couldn’t do the test this early and she was off at noon. How nice that she was concerned about what was more convenient for HER schedule. I smiled politely and explained that no, we were going home. I said “We live five minutes away and my husband is here to take care of me. When we arrived yesterday at 10am there were no rooms available. Someone had to give up their room for me, and I have a room with a tub, which not all rooms have. It would be selfish of me to stay here when I feel fine, and even if I was moved to a different room, it’s still taking that room away from a mother who needs it.” And I didn’t want to stay another night in that hellhole anyway.

So she agreed to schedule an appointment for us to come back later in the week. Just like they do with homebirth babies. WHY didn’t I think about that? Tyler and I stayed until noon because they brought lunch and Tyler wanted to eat, even if I wasn’t up to having anything but water at that moment because their food was gross. Then we finished packing our bags and his dad came up with the stroller and car seat. As we passed the nurse’s station I told them “We were in Room 23; so a tub is now available for anyone who needs it.”

As soon as we got home, I had Tyler bring Hunter to my chest, skin-to-skin, and when I wasn’t feeding him, Tyler was holding him and I was eating or tending to my other needs. We adopted a system for diaper changes where we would BOTH change and wipe, and that made it easier for us both to have help and learn how best to accomplish the task and keep our boy calm (he didn’t like it the first few days). At night I would nurse him and fall asleep reclining on the couch with him still at my breast, or I would find him curled up on my chest while I was lying in our bed. Jules has assured me that this is perfectly fine, and that mothers in other countries always sleep with their babies. It’s only Western cultures that use bassinets, and in all honesty I’ve found I’m getting a lot more sleep with my son ON me, still at the breast, than if I have to wake up and put him down in his bassinet. Thankfully I had a midwife who could tell me all this shit so I didn’t lose sleep and unknowingly mess up breastfeeding in those early weeks when I knew nothing. Besides that, I usually don’t wake up right away. It’s just so easy to fall asleep while nursing him, and it’s comforting for him to snuggle against his mommy. Tyler will also fall asleep with our son on his chest, so I guess co-sleeping works for us; at least for now.

So that’s my birth story. I’ll post again soon about the first week, but right now it’s 8pm on Friday night, close to the time that I hit the second stage and was moved to the bed to deliver my son. And how aware I was of that time of day for weeks on end. I need to eat, feed the cats, and cuddle with my baby boy some more. Right now he’s sleeping beside me on the couch, enjoying the evening sunset as it pours in through our large picture windows. He is perfectly content and so peaceful to look at. I am in constant awe that this beautiful child has resulted from the love Tyler and I share together. I often joke that we had a hell of a fun night creating this perfect child, and that he would likely be traumatized if he knew that Mommy and Daddy had been quite naughty.

But until that day arrives, I am going to enjoy this tiny baby and hold him as much as I can get away with. He won’t be this size forever, and there will come a time when he won’t want me to snuggle him anymore. I will be sad when that day arrives, and I’m sure Tyler will be too. I got all the snuggles with him and will take what I can get while I still can.

It’s truly amazing how far we’ve come. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine ever being a good mother. Tyler was worried he wouldn’t be a good father. I freaked out when I first read that pregnancy test. Tyler had his moments of fear that he wouldn’t be able to support us and there were moments early in the pregnancy when we doubted that we could do this. And then the months passed and we felt his first rolls, his first kicks, his first wiggles as he got bigger. We heard his heart beating, saw him on the ultrasound, watched my belly jerk and move with the force of his little body pressing against it. I felt his feet in my ribs and his head down below. I felt his hiccups and spent many nights talking to him and telling him how much I loved him. I sang to him, Tyler placed his hand on my belly every chance he had, and we looked at baby gear together. We painted his nursery and got it ready for him. I cried when he didn’t arrive on his due date, then rejoiced when I realized he would be here on May 17th, six months to my birthday. My favorite number and his godmother’s “magic” number. I spent two days in labor, a week in prelabor, and three hours pushing him out. I worked hard, and through it all I had the support of his daddy to help me through it. Now it’s over, but at the same time it’s just beginning. We have a family of our own now, in every sense of the word. And it’s SO fitting that a love that is as pure, beautiful, all-encompassing, enduring, and powerful as ours is has brought forth this sweet baby boy who hardly fusses at all unless he’s hungry or needs to be changed or burped. He’s not even a week old yet. Give him time…He looks up at us with his beautiful eyes and though they all say that babies don’t smile until a few months old, I see his soft smile on his lips every time I hold him. ❤

My son will officially be two years old next week. It’s insane how fast time has flown by, and I thought for sure that by this point things would change and I’d be able to move past my trauma. But it seems I’ve just moved from one part of the trauma to another.

See, waaaay back in October, my husband brought up the idea of us trying for Baby #2. I was still nursing and hadn’t even considered trying to conceive again until after his second birthday, when I would (In theory) be done nursing and have a much more easygoing child. But, because my period still hadn’t returned, (and the fact that it might take a while for me to ACTUALLY conceive) I finally talked myself into the idea of ditching the condoms. Not really a hard decision, since it was one less thing to worry about, but I’d be lying if I said I planned to actually HELP the process along. Honestly, I figured that if it happened it happened, and if not, oh well, at least we’re having fun trying.

And so it’s come to be over six months later and still I’m not pregnant, nor have I stopped nursing and I still haven’t seen my period since before I got pregnant with Hunter. It’s not really a big deal to me, and it will happen when it happens, but the fact is that eventually it WILL happen. That’s not what scares me though. I’m totally okay with getting pregnant again. I’m okay with having TWO kids to care for. What I’m NOT okay with is the “what if” scenarios that keep popping into my head.

I can thank my Anxiety for that.

I KNOW that the likelihood of any of these “what if” scenarios happening is very miniscule, but they still terrify me.

What if I accidentally conceive twins?

What if my baby is breech?

What if I actually DO develop a condition that requires management, like Gestational Diabetes or Pre-Eclampsia?

What if my baby really DOES develop IUGR?

What if the midwives in the practices don’t support my decision not to have any of the routine tests?

What if I can’t find a midwife willing to take me on because I get pregnant when there are too many other women on the wait list?

What if my labor stalls, or I NEED an intervention?

What if, after all my careful planning, I end up having to transfer to the hospital after all?

What if, What if, What if?

It’s just a never-ending line of scary questions in my head, and they pop up more times than I care to count.

I don’t know what will make it better. I KNOW that I can’t see into the future and I can’t 100% KNOW what will happen with a second pregnancy. I know that it might be different than the first one. I know that I can’t plan for every possible outcome, but it’s just so much easier said than done.

This is what the trauma of my son’s birth has done to me! It has made me so cautious, so fearful, so mistrusting of even the midwives who I might consult in the future. I could go to a different practice, but I don’t know what to expect. I could have my doula, but what if she’s not available again?

I am terrified to even think about getting a DUE DATE for this hypothetical future baby. I don’t want to be pressured into an induction. I don’t want people to say I’m measuring too small, or put any sort of timeline on my child’s growth.

Basically I’m just scared.

I wasn’t scared the first time. I was so confident and so certain that I could have the natural birth I wanted. And now my fear consumes me whenever I think of doing it all over again. It’s irrational; I got through a long labor and delivery, and I had a completely natural birth. This SHOULD be okay with me. I should be able to think “hey, I did it before I can do it even better next time” but instead I think “what if the next baby is in a different position, or I have complications” and it just sucks!

It sucks because when I get pregnant again I’m going to be a nervous wreck the whole time. I will TRY not to be, but it will be SO hard when I now know how easy it is for the system to screw me over. I will constantly be questioning what my midwife tells me. I will be wary of any test or procedure. I will likely spend my final months in a state of constant anxiety, praying that no complications develop to risk me out of a home birth. Because then I’ll have to fight even harder to do what I want. I might have to choose between fighting or just doing it all on my own, without telling anyone my intentions.

I know a lot of people might suggest I wait a bit longer before thinking about a second baby, and maybe they’re right. But I also know that my trying/not trying strategy is pretty much the ONLY way I could ever BE ready to have another kid. My anxiety pretty much forces me to either let fate decide for me or just never ever do it. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m letting fate decide whether or not I get pregnant. But that’s ALL the chance I’m willing to take.

I finally discussed my feelings with my husband the other day, though not to the full extent. I basically told him just how upset and traumatic laboring at the hospital actually was. I told him about the nurse who harassed me about getting my blood drawn while he was downstairs getting things from the car. I told him how horrible it was being pulled from the tub and how my body was telling me that I needed to lean OVER the bed and that being ON the bed made things worse. He finally concluded that most of those things were “hospital protocol” and I said “yes, and that’s why I will never have another baby there”. It was the first time he actually understood, and probably also the first time I was able to talk about it without immediately getting upset. I mean, I still got upset, but not over the top hysterical at the mere suggestion that any of these things might just have been policy.

So maybe I AM healing, little by little. I still have a lot to process and I know that it’s going to be harder to deal with my feelings as the birthday draws closer, but at least I finally got to the point where I can talk to my spouse without fearing that he’s just going to roll his eyes and dismiss all my feelings as “hysterical”. And no, he wouldn’t actually do that. Just like he won’t leave me (as he has said countless times that I have nothing to worry about), but that doesn’t mean that the fear isn’t still there. That’s the trouble with anxiety though, it makes everything 10 times harder because all the “what if” scenarios start circling in your brain and make you doubt yourself.

There is a reprehensibly disgusting meme that I’ve just been made aware of.

Basically a bunch of internet trolls/religious zealots have been posting it to shame and harass mothers who had c-sections, saying they got a “lucky break” because they didn’t actually have to give birth.

As someone who had an all-natural vaginal birth, I am still deeply offended by this line of thought. I fail to see how MY birth experience could possibly be more difficult than a c-section.

I have friends who have had c-sections. I know that some of them are okay with it, and others take the stance that c-sections suck big time. Both points are valid because experiences and feelings about those experiences are different for everyone. If you were to ask my personal opinion on having a c-section though, well, you probably already guessed I’m in the camp that c-sections suck in comparison to a 36 hour labor and pushing a baby out without drugs. But though a c-section is the very last thing I would ever want and I’ll do my damndest to never ever have to have one, it’s not for thinking that it’s a coward’s way out.

My c-section friends, I in no way think my long labor and delivery is any way more difficult than what you faced, and here’s why:

1) You had to have a needle. In your back. Seriously, that’s freaking BRAVE! I don’t think I could have done that; in fact, just thinking about that big needle freaks me out. It’s why I had NO desire for an epidural no matter how bad the pain of labor got. And this isn’t even factoring in the chance of the epidural causing back pain/back spasms due to its placement (yeah, that can happen).

2) You also had to have an IV. I’ve had an IV ONCE in my life and I am pretty confident in my decision to avoid it at all costs. IVs freaking HURT and I can’t imagine having to place one while suffering through contractions (for an emergency c-section) or just really having one in place AT ALL!

3) You had a catheter. Again, freaking bravery that you went through with that, even if it wasn’t really your choice. I was threatened with one after I gave birth to my son and just wanted to sleep a few hours longer before the nurse harassed me to get up and pee. I dragged my tired ass out of bed and had her draw me a hot bath so I could go in peace just to avoid such an unpleasant fate. I hear that a catheter can also cause urinary tract issues after the fact.

4) You had MAJOR abdominal surgery. You were CUT OPEN and then people were moving your organs around. I have heard this can cause your GI tract to be a little screwy after the fact, and why wouldn’t it? You had your whole digestive system and then some pushed around to pull a baby out. When I think about that I just cannot in any way fathom how my long labor and pushing stage could be considered more of an ordeal. You win, c-section mamas.

5) You HAD TO stay in the hospital. You had surgery, and a major one at that, so there was no early discharge for you. I was there for 12 hours after the birth and could have gone home an hour after had I not been talked out of it. And next time? I’ll ALREADY be home.

6) You had a loooong recovery. I hear it can take 2 weeks or longer to heal from a c-section and on top of that you now have a helpless newborn. That’s seriously a lot to go through; especially if you’re a first time mom! But even a seasoned veteran mom would have it tough since there are other tiny humans to care for in addition to this new tiny human. In comparison, my first few days of not being able to lift anything due to weakness in my arms (from gripping my husband during the actual birth) and feeling a bit achy is NOTHING when I think of you c-section mamas.

7) You are more likely to have complications in subsequent pregnancies, a difficult time finding a truly VBAC supportive care provider, and not to mention possible issues around your incision site. I have none of these worries; the only thing that is of any real concern to me is whether or not I can find a midwife who will stay hands-off and just let me call all the shots in my next pregnancy and birth. So while my trauma is no less valid, I also know that a lot of my friends have a lot more to deal with than just not getting the birth they had wanted.

8) If you didn’t plan your c-section, you probably have a lot of negative feelings associated with the birth; especially if it was a very stressful last-minute thing or you felt pressured into agreeing or didn’t know you had options. I only sort of understand this due to my own disappointment in where my son was born, but had I not been such a stubborn pain in the ass pregnant mama and listened to the medwife then I could have very well ended up in your place. They WANTED to induce and section me; it was my own refusal to see an OB or do ANYTHING other than go in for ultrasounds and non-stress tests to reassure them (and myself) that my son was okay and that there was no danger in waiting for labor to start on its own. And I get that a lot of people inherently trust the “experts” and wouldn’t think to question their recommendations; we’re biologically hardwired to follow those we perceive to be the most knowledgeable or most capable in a situation we are unfamiliar with. But sadly if you didn’t plan it, and you didn’t want it, but felt you had NO choice, only to later find out you DID…that’s rough. And the moms who really DID need a c-section, well, you’re likely to worry that the same complication could happen again. After all, you did everything right and got dealt a crappy hand anyway, and you have no one to blame for it. That’s got to be terrifying and devastating. I’m sorry.

So those assholes who say you got a lucky break, or those ignorant first time moms who are currently pregnant and think a c-section would be easier, and also those non-pregnant childless women who think they’d rather be cut open than endure the horrors of labor and delivery (of which I was once one because I didn’t KNOW—and I’m sorry to all the moms who chose a non medicated labor and delivery and I told them they were insane)…they are ALL wrong for saying it. YOU are the ones who are BRAVE and STRONG, and I couldn’t imagine having to go through all of that. You, c-section mamas, are the true birth warriors as far as I’m concerned. And you can totally quote me on that in whatever empowering meme you want to create in response to the haters!

Or you can snag this image and post it in the comments section of any forum of which they share it 😉

Okay, I get it. My trauma is not as bad as what some people have faced. But that shouldn’t matter. That isn’t the point at all!

The fact is that regardless of the fact that I got my favorite midwife in the end, and regardless of the fact that nobody cut me, I am still traumatized.

Remember how I keep saying it’s all about how the person feels about their experience that makes it traumatic? Well hearing that I’m lucky doesn’t make the trauma any less for me.

Yeah, sorry to say, your words of “comfort” aren’t that comforting.

Yes, in the end I got a natural birth, but here are the parts I remember.

I remember early in labor that I believed I could simply change my mind and deliver at home. But the midwife wouldn’t come to the house. I had no choice; I had to go to the hospital.

I remember the excruciating pain of having to sit in the passenger seat as we drove the five minutes to the hospital. I remember getting to triage and being told that because I had non stress tests done in pregnancy I had to have another one. I remember having to lie on the bed for 20 minutes. It was agony.

I remember being told I was in active labor but that there were no rooms available.

I remember overhearing the nurses saying that if I delivered fast I would be doing so in triage.

I remember trying to concentrate and keep my rhythm through contractions as another woman screamed from behind the curtain in the bed next to mine.

I remember having to tell the nurse behind the curtain THREE times that I did not want my blood drawn, and I remember the anxiety I felt each time I had to say it AND deal with my contractions.

I remember the long walk to my room and the relief and safety of the bathtub, and how I just wanted to retreat into my own private world.

I remember the nurse repeatedly trying to get me to cooperate for more than one cervical check, and I remember the relief I felt when my midwife didn’t insist on it.

I remember feeling that surge of power as my son started to descend into the birth canal and how quickly the peace was shattered. I remember the frantic way I begged and pleaded to stay in the tub in my crouched position. I remember how they ripped the gas mask away. I remember being pulled up to stand, forced to lift my leg up to climb out and walk. I remember the pain of being able to feel his head right against my hip bone and how all I wanted in that moment was to be left alone. I remember being ordered to walk to the bed and I remember wanting to lean over it. I remember being told firmly “no” and forced to climb onto it. I remember being on my hands and knees and being made to turn around, lie down on the bed properly, and I remember that I was pushing while lying on my side but that it wasn’t effective so I was made to lie semi reclined on my back. I remember that the pain in my back was so great that I didn’t even try to move again.

I remember pushing and pushing for over an hour and wondering why he wasn’t out yet. I remember the fear as I kept looking at that clock and thinking “they are going to have to cut me”. I remember the stress of having everyone tell me to push when the position I was in was obviously not conducive to effective pushing.

I remember the fear and the anxiety due to that fear. I remember my contractions stalling and wondering why. I now think it was because I was in such a state of stress and anxiety that my labor stalled as part of my fight or flight response. I’m also convinced that’s where my strength came from to push him out when I was sure I couldn’t.

I remember being threatened with an episiotomy and thinking that it would just be easier if I gave up before she made that threat. I remember the fear of being cut as something so terrible that I didn’t care anymore if I tore.

I remember the exam afterward being worse than the tearing. I remember the fear that I would need stitches and the relief when I found out I would heal without them.

I remember the fear of being threatened with a catheter at 5am when all I wanted to do was sleep a few more hours. I remember the searing pain of having to empty my bladder into the bath water and I remember how that pain stuck with me for a week. I remember hearing other women down the hall and just wanting to block out the sounds.

I remember how I struggled for 3 days to write out my birth story and not knowing why. I remember feeling a deep sense of regret when I was told I could have had a home birth after all. I remember being asked if I was okay with having a hospital birth and trying to rationalize and justify it as being necessary. I remember feeling that I wasn’t really telling the truth but thinking that I needed to be okay with it because everyone was expecting that of me.

I remember the irrational anger I felt whenever anyone told me that it was better that I hadn’t gone through with the home birth because “what if something had gone wrong”. I remember the crushing heartache I felt whenever my husband even suggested that we might not have another child. I remember the way I would play out different scenarios in my head on how to do better next time. Everything from insisting on a water birth where I was undisturbed except for my doula’s encouragement to birthing completely alone. I did not often factor my husband into these scenarios either, nor did I consider the implications of having a second child beyond the birth.

It’s been over a year and I still catch myself doing this sometimes. I have to remind myself that we aren’t ready to have another baby and that the best thing would be to wait until our son is older. I need to actually visualize what it would mean to care for our son the way he is now AND be pregnant at the same time. I force myself to think of how drained I would be and how stressful another child would be on our resources. I remind myself that no matter how much I want to heal emotionally, it will not happen just because I get pregnant again. In fact, it might make things worse since I will be overly anxious and mistrusting. Basically, I have to remind myself that healing takes time and that I need to be in a better place mentally than I am right now before I even think about having another child.

But I can’t do that if people keep insisting I’m lucky. I’m not lucky. My trauma is just as real and valid as anyone else’s. My scars aren’t physical, but I can still see them every time I look at my son and every time I look at my belly. It took me a year to finally embrace intimacy with my husband, and even still I have to tell myself to relax. If having to force oneself to enjoy sex, which was once so enjoyable, is being “lucky” then hell, I must be lucky. If the thought of having a second child fills me with equal parts fear and determination that the next time will be better, then I guess I’m super fortunate.

If thinking of my son’s birth fills me with regret rather than joy, if all I can seems to remember clearly is the fear and anxiety and the wave of relief when it was over, and if I can’t clearly remember how it felt to hold him in my arms or even the details of those first few hours of his life, then I’m the luckiest woman ever. I got my natural birth but I don’t remember the most important part of it; indeed those moments feel more like a barely remembered dream. So please, tell me again how “lucky” I am!

It’s been over a year now since my son was born and yet I still don’t think I’ve healed enough emotionally.

They say it gets easier, and most days that’s true.

I never really cried (I must have done enough of that before he was born).

For the first month of his life I had all but convinced myself that my birth wasn’t really that traumatic, that I could be happy with how it unfolded. After all, I had what I wanted, didn’t I? I got a completely natural birth without any cuts or needles or medical interference.

I should be happy. I should be okay.

But I’m not. I am still too far away from being okay with any of it.

And I tell myself that I’ll heal when it’s time to have a second baby; that I’ll get my do-over.

But then I keep changing the number of years away that I’d like to start trying for that baby. First it was 2. Then 3. Now my son should be closer to 4…and really, I’m not thinking about when the time will be right for our family or when we have the time to care for that second baby. I’m just obsessed with the birth. Absolutely and completely obsessed.

At first I just wanted a do-over of my home birth, but the deeper I get into my preoccupation the more radical my ideas become. Like thinking about just going it alone and calling everyone, including Tyler, after I’ve already given birth. Just to avoid any chance of someone ruining this second chance.

I know it’s crazy. I know it is a stupid and dangerous thing to want to do. But I’m just too scared to chance another failure; another trauma.

When I hear a friend or family member is pregnant I should be happy for them, but in my head all I can think about is how their births could go horribly wrong if they aren’t INFORMED that doctors and even midwives can lie. It has nothing at all to do with me, but I still get anxious whenever I hear the words “my doctor won’t let me” or “I’m okay with having the baby in the hospital” because I just can’t trust that they’ll have a good birth. It’s a horrible thought, I know, but there you go.

So I am more than aware that my birth trauma has affected me deeply. Hell, that’s why I signed up to be a coordinator for Improving Birth and now run a Facebook page with a good friend and fellow trauma survivor. Her birth was more traumatic than mine and affected her more deeply, but neither one of us judges the other or tells the other they should “be grateful”. We both know that a healthy baby isn’t ALL that matters. We both know that birth trauma is a real thing, and it can be life-altering.

For months after my son’s birth I couldn’t enjoy sex at all. I was physically healed and there should have been NO reason for me to tense up every single time, but I did. I had to try to remind myself to relax every time and it took almost a whole year for me to get back on the horse, so to speak. Sex no longer feels like a chore, is what I’m saying. And yes, I know it’s ironic that the woman who used to write smutty romance fanfiction wasn’t REALLY in the mood for full-on-sex for a whole year. It wasn’t even the intimacy that was the problem, and fooling around was fine. It was the penetrative act itself that was the issue. I thought it was due to breastfeeding, but I’m still nursing so I know that wasn’t it. It was the trauma. It was my body tensing up out of fear, just like when I couldn’t relax at all when I had my pap test done at my 6 week appointment (just so I wouldn’t have to do it again in the fall). So looking back now, physically I WAS affected.

Then there’s the fact that certain parts of his birth, things I didn’t think of before, start coming back to me now. Things I didn’t think bothered me at all now feel like fresh wounds and while there are parts of the birth that I can be thankful for (like how my midwife did all she could to lessen my trauma) there are too many other parts that I wish desperately had been different.

Last night I had a fitful sleep. I kept thinking about my birth and all the things that were wrong with it. I thought of Heather and her scaremongering and I thought of the pain (something I believed to not be that big a deal a year ago) when my son was pulled from me so quickly after that one big push. I thought of the pain of the exam after I tore, and I thought of all the parts of my life that have been affected by this trauma. I don’t think I slept much at all. I kept waking up, and my son and my husband were sleeping peacefully on either side of me, but I couldn’t sleep. When morning came I was actually happy to get up, just so I didn’t have to lie in bed anymore and keep thinking about it.

This is the first time since the week after he was born that these events have played in a loop in my head like that. Shortly after birth I had a nightmare that I was pushing again. A few days after the music I’d had playing in labor was still echoing in my head. A month after that I was on Improving Birth constantly reading everything I could and through that site I found my voice. I recognized so much of what I was feeling through the stories of the other mothers and my fight began.

I have read that healing takes time, and perhaps it will take me a lot longer than just a year. Perhaps it might be best to wait until my son’s closer to his 4th birthday to have that second child. After all, every time I think of a second pregnancy I picture myself trying to control EVERYTHING. I know I am going to be a real pain in the ass to work with and I don’t envy my future midwives at all. And with the amount of time I spend trying to find ways to avoid EVERY possible complication that could arise and require a hospital birth or a c-section, I just don’t think I’m in a good place mentally. I’m pretty sure my Self-Assessment that I downloaded from the IB Birth Trauma Kit has proved that.

So I’m going to try to live in the present. I’ll have my healing home birth, but I won’t be putting a timeline on it. Obviously before I’m 35, but other than that, it will happen when the stars align and the universe deems me “ready” to handle it. After all, there’s no sense trying to rush into healing when that fear and anxiety is still very much a part of my every thought.

In the meantime I have my page, a cause worth fighting for, and a good friend to talk to who understands exactly what I’m going through. I may not have healed yet, but this is a pretty good start.

I know I have talked about this at length before, but never in this context. I’ve always talked about the birth. How upsetting it is to know I could have had the home birth I had envisioned. How I felt powerless at the end. How I mourn that lost birth experience even as I enjoy my son. How having a healthy baby is not all that matters.

But this time I’m not going to talk about the birth. Instead I’m going to shed some light on what led up to it.

At 34 weeks, just after my friend’s baby shower, I felt my son move down. I was leaning over the back of the couch and rocking my hips, encouraging his descent. It was uncomfortable, but I could handle it. Only a few months ago I had suffered a severe back spasm that had left me in pain for three days. We’re talking pain so bad that I was nauseous. I threw up. I dry heaved and was sure my muscles were being torn apart. My son was my only concern. I was so afraid he would be hurt; that I would go into premature labor at 25 weeks. I didn’t. He was fine.

After that I had been seeing a chiropractor. I saw her regularly for adjustments to keep the back pain at bay and at 25 weeks after that first adjustment my son had turned. He had more room. Turns out my pelvis had been twisted. So this? This was nothing.

At that midwife appointment Jules was the one to check my belly. She was impressed that his head was already in position. She said things were going well for me and asked if I had found a doula for my home birth yet. I told her I had a meeting next week. She was the one who had helped me get in touch with Lucinda, and she was happy I had managed to make contact so quickly. Time was running out, after all. I can never express enough how much I love them both; my doula and my midwife.

Then Jules was on leave for a few weeks. This is when all hell broke loose.

At my 35 week appointment I saw Heather. She expressed concern that I was measuring smaller, not believing me when I told her that it could be because my son had dropped. Like REALLY dropped. I could feel his head where my G-spot was located. She decided to send me for an ultrasound.

Ty and I were just happy to see our son on the screen again. We were smiling and joking about how big his feet were and thought nothing of it. He looked fine. The tech said everything seemed okay; fluid was good, the placenta was in the right spot and our son was a good size.

A few days later we met with Lucinda. She seemed a perfect fit but she told us to wait a few days before making a final decision.

Sunday night I got the call from Heather. It had been four days since the ultrasound and I had been confident that everything was fine with me and my son. I felt perfectly fine and my son was as active as ever. There would have been news a lot sooner if something had been wrong.

That night she destroyed everything.

I’m cuddling on the couch at 8pm with Tyler and happily watching TV. She calls, I answer. She tells me she just got the results and has to discuss some things with me.

Apparently the scan turned up showing a smaller stomach than what is to be expected. She’s consulting with an OB. She tells me that my son may have a IntraUterine Growth Restriction (IUGR). She says that he might not be able to tolerate labor well. She thinks it’s best that I go in for Non-Stress Tests to see how he’s doing. She says that they might have to induce me. I will probably have a c-section. She wants me to start seeing an Obstetrician. I can’t have a home birth.

I am devastated. I’m terrified and crying and I just can’t handle this.

I am needle phobic and all I keep thinking is how I’m going to have to have an IV line and an epidural and a catheter. Goodbye home, hello hospital. Goodbye to all that is safe and comfortable and hello to my worst nightmare.

I am inconsolable. I’m sobbing on Tyler’s shoulder after that call. Devastated, broken sobs of a girl who has just lost everything. All hope is lost. I need Lucinda. I tell Tyler that I need her. I call her.

She is my angel, and from her I gain my strength. I am reassured that it’s still early and things can change. She tells me she will be here for me every step of the way. She sends me article after article on births that “seem impossible” where the mother was able to deliver without complications, naturally. She sends me information on IUGR and tells me not to worry. She tells me that I can STILL avoid an induction and a c-section if I just stay calm. Go in for the tests. Prove them wrong. You can do this.

She is the only one who understands. Tyler tries, but he’s scared too. My family is unsupportive. “It’s not so bad to just have him in the hospital,” they say. They tell me that if something goes wrong that at least I’ll be safer there. A friend who has had a c-section reassures me by saying it’s not that bad. That is not reassuring at all because she doesn’t understand WHY I don’t want one. I fear the needles and the loss of control more than actually being cut open. I would rather labor for days than go under the knife. I don’t want to stay in the hospital. I want to breastfeed immediately. I want my natural birth.

Nobody understands this.

Heather is still the midwife on duty during my appointments. I tell her my concerns and she dismisses them. She tells me it’s not that bad and that even though the tests are coming up fine, I should STILL see an OB. I lie and tell her I’ll think about it, but I’m not going to actually do that. I don’t want an OB. I don’t trust them to not induce me or cut me.

Heather visits the hospital during one of my many NSTs. I point out that all tests are coming up fine and ask if maybe they’re wrong? Maybe I can birth at home after all?

“I still think you should be at the hospital” she says, crushing me again. She says this in front of my husband, which puts doubts in his head too.

So I continue going in each week, still upset that I can’t be at home. I tell Lucinda and she suggests I just “change my mind” the day I go into labor. It seems simple, but sadly it’s not enough. Heather continues to tell me that even if I was to have a home birth I would probably have to transfer anyway. “First babies are rarely born at home,” she tells me. “You don’t know how labor will go for you. It’s more feasible for women who have already had one baby before to attempt a home birth.”

More fear. More shaming me into compliance. I am too inexperienced to know what I want. I won’t be able to handle it on my own. I’ll end up giving up, in the end. Might as well just accept it.

At 39 weeks I get the call from Jules. She tells me that the scan they were basing everything off of was a terrible one and she doesn’t believe it for a second.

By that time everyone has been telling me for weeks to just go to the hospital. Ty has started to agree with them. I am alone. Unsupported in my wishes for a home birth.

So when she tells me I can have one, I decline. I fucking lose my nerve and believe it’s too late. I am defeated.

And now, over a year later, I am fucking PISSED!

Maybe Heather was swayed by the OB. Maybe she felt pressure from the medical community that oversaw the maternity group practice. I don’t care; I will never forgive her for her part in destroying my birth plans. I will never trust another person to tell me what I can and can’t do. I will go into my next pregnancy suspicious of everyone and will outright refuse routine tests. Because of what I now know, I will only ever trust in myself and my body. I will alert Lucinda the second I find out I am pregnant again and secure her as my doula right away. I will go into every midwife appointment with skepticism. If they say I’m measuring too small I will likely roll my eyes and tell them “that’s cute. I did that with my firstborn too and he was born perfectly healthy at almost 8 lbs. But if you want to order that ultrasound anyway that’s cool, because I wouldn’t mind seeing my baby on screen again. However, I will still be having that home birth even if I have to go in for NSTs just to prove you wrong.”

And then I’ll probably end up giving birth before the midwife even gets to our house, just because I can.

Whenever that phrase is thrown around it is usually accompanied by women’s stories of being forced into a c-section or being given episiotomies they didn’t want. It’s for the mothers who were treated poorly by the nurses and doctors and for those who were in essence, traumatized by their births.

When people think of birth trauma I doubt they would ever think of me.

I had a straightforward labor in which I stayed in the tub the whole time, refusing to move. I didn’t use drugs, save for the gas I still feel I only wanted because I couldn’t relax on my own with my back labor so bad and not being in familiar surroundings. I pushed for 3 hours and only tore at the very end, and I didn’t need stitches. I had skin to skin contact immediately, delayed cord clamping and my son latched onto my breast within minutes of being born. To put it plainly, I was one of the “lucky” mothers who got through birth unscathed.

Except that’s not true.

I am not unmarred by birth. I WAS traumatized.

Others may not see it that way, but I do. I couldn’t possibly explain WHY birth affects me so much more now than it did before, or why I continue to get upset whenever I see it depicted in the “wrong” way.

I can’t explain why I feel apprehensive about other women’s births and pregnancies, when it’s not like it’s happening to ME, if I don’t call a spade a spade and say that it’s birth trauma.

My sister in law went with a doctor instead of a midwife. I would hear things like “they LET me,” or “hospital policy says I have to do X”. I get angry and tell her that she doesn’t have to do ANYTHING she doesn’t want to do, and I want her and every other woman I know to tell the system to fuck off.

My stepsister is due any day now. She is also with an OB and I fear for her birth experience. Already I discover that she’s submitting to routine exams when I know they are pointless. I want her to switch to a midwife because she was with one before, but she thinks things will go fine. I don’t believe it. I don’t trust doctors. I will probably NEVER believe a thing that any “professional” tells me ever again.

I replay the last few weeks of my pregnancy in my head quite often whenever I think about or read about something to do with birth. Every time I do I get angry about it. I am bitter.

I was lied to.

I was told that my son wasn’t growing properly. I was told I was carrying too small for my dates and that I would need to change my birth setting.

I was told he would not tolerate labor and that I might need an induction and a c-section.

I went in for countless NSTs and Ultrasounds in those last few weeks. My son’s tests all came back with excellent results. He was fine.

I knew he was fine. But SHE kept telling me that he wasn’t.

SHE wanted me to consult with an OB. I never bothered to make an appointment. It was one small act of defiance, but it wasn’t enough.

SHE had put that small doubt into my head and everyone around me was telling me to just have my son in the hospital.

So I cancelled my plan for a home birth.

I got the call from my midwife, the one who had told me to hire a doula and who delivered my son. She told me that the other midwife was full of shit and that she’d ordered one more ultrasound to prove there was nothing wrong. I could have a home birth if I wanted.

And I am so angry with myself for thinking that way was closed to me. I should have told her to go ahead and to ask for help getting everything ready in time. I should have, but I didn’t.

Because I thought that it was too late and what if there was something wrong after all? What if we ended up needing to transfer, as SHE had suggested I might. SHE had said at that appointment, after the tests had come back fine, that most first time moms ended up transfering to the hospital. What did I know about it? I had no idea what my labor and birth would be like!

And I fucking believed her.

I didn’t do what I wanted. I could have, but I didn’t. And then, at 41 weeks I changed my mind. I wanted to have him at home, but I wasn’t registered for a home birth anymore and had no choice. I had to go to the hospital.

I should have insisted. I should have stayed home and just had an “emergency” home birth. But I didn’t. I went to the hospital.

I was harassed by a nurse wanting to take my blood, even though I had it in my records that I had declined that. I was laboring hard and I was stressed out just by being in the hospital and not having my familiar comforts with me. I was in THEIR environment, not mine. I had other women around me all laboring and moaning and their voices threw me off my own rhythm. I was no longer in my hypnotic state.

And then I finally got the tub. I stayed there. I didn’t want to move. Not because I was comfortable just staying there, but because I didn’t have my privacy and I didn’t want to be in that room.

I took the gas because I couldn’t move around and lean over my own furniture. I took the gas to escape from everyone and block out the voices.

If I had been home I wouldn’t have needed the fucking gas.

But for hours I was in my own trance. Breathe in, breathe out. No noise, no interruptions. I drank my gatorade and water and relaxed.

Time had no meaning.

Close to the end of my labor I felt the rush, the pressure. I knew he was coming down, and then I felt his head and knew he would be born soon.

And then hell broke loose.

The nurse figured out I was pushing and I was pulled from the tub. The gas, my only escape from reality, was cruelly taken away from me. I could feel his head literally against the bottom of my pelvis and it made it hard to walk, and still they made me get out of the tub. They forced me into the bright room and I wanted to lean over the bed and squat. They made me get on it. Where was my husband? He had stepped out to go to the bathroom down the hall, since he hadn’t wanted to disturb me. I was in more pain being forced onto the bed than I had ever been in labor. In that moment I lost all control.

I tried to push while lying on my side, but it wasn’t working and they had me semi-reclined on my back. I couldn’t get up and change position because of the back labor and then I was told to hold my breath and push. I was in the absolute worst position possible to birth my son, and now I know that had I been allowed to just do what my body had been telling me to do and been leaning over the fucking bed and squatting, he might have turned his head and come sooner.

I didn’t get cut. I didn’t have any interventions. I birthed him 100% naturally, but I am still not happy.

I know WHY I tore. They didn’t let me wait. I was going by my body’s cues and I knew I just needed that moment to stretch, and they MADE ME push. I KNEW I was going to tear. But I wasn’t in control. They threatened me with an episiotomy if I didn’t do it right NOW.

And then there were so many people in the room with me lying naked and splayed on the bed. I had specified for there to be only the nurse and midwife, maybe a pediatrician, but there were a lot more than that.

I am still bitter that I wasn’t at home.

I wanted to go home the second I regained use of my legs, but they told me to wait until morning. It was 11pm. I should sleep.

So I slept. And I was woken up in the middle of the fucking night by a nurse who threatened to catheterize me if I didn’t go to the toilet right now. So I told her to let me take a bath and I would go in there. I should have asked for a compress to cover the tears. It stung like a bitch, but I endured it because I didn’t want anyone touching me.

And for a week I had several baths a day, just so I could pee.

All because I tore and could have prevented it. I could have birthed at home in the tub, but instead I was on the bed. On my back.

And now, whenever I watch TV and there’s a birth scene, and I see the mother on her back I shake my head. And my husband points out that I birthed that way.

I know. And I’m pissed about it.

I can’t “get over” this. I probably won’t be okay again until I have that second baby and do things 100% my way.

I am so mistrusting of the “professionals” that I have considered birthing unassisted and then calling the midwife AFTER I’m actively pushing. Just so I can avoid all interruptions and exams.

They say that people with birth trauma relive the events closer to their child’s birthday. If that’s true, then I am most definitely a birth trauma victim.

It doesn’t matter if my birth was without intervention. In my mind I still feel that loss of control. My choices were taken from me and I was lied to and coerced into changing my plans.

In the end I don’t blame my midwife (the one who delivered my son). She was working within the hospital and had to follow their protocols. But I feel that if I had just stayed home things would have been so much better. I would have birthed in the pool, squatting, and I probably wouldn’t have felt so stressed. I wouldn’t have torn at all, I’m sure of it. And at the end of it all I would have been able to curl up in my own bed with my husband and my son. I would not have lain awake in the dark for hours with nothing to do, just waiting for morning so that I could go home. I would have already been home.

And yes, there’s always the next baby, but that doesn’t make this okay.

And it doesn’t make it okay for the other birth trauma victims. It’s not okay that we are lied to or forced to follow hospital protocol. It’s not okay when we’re told to “get over it” and enjoy our children and stop focusing on such an “insignificant” setback. It’s not okay when we’re told that it was “for the best”.

Birth Trauma isn’t about what happened but instead how the woman felt about what happened. Ultimately it isn’t that I had a long labor or that I pushed for three hours. It isn’t about pain (I have suffered far worse) or that I tore. It’s that feeling of helplessness that I can’t stomach. It’s having my choices taken away and not having the strength in that moment to resist. I couldn’t birth my child AND explain why I needed or wanted to get into a different position at the same time. And that is what sticks with me. It’s why I fight for women’s rights to the point that my family and friends are sick of it. But I keep doing it. I keep reading every article I can find and I cry at the injustices other mothers face in their pregnancies and births.

So if there is one good thing to come from having my choices taken from me it’s that I am more aware of the problems in our maternity care, and I’ll do my damndest to make sure others are aware of it too.

And hopefully, thirty years from now, my children will live in a world where birth trauma no longer exists.